


The ways I know you

by Ace of Smut (AceOfShipping)



Category: Black Jack (Anime & Manga)
Genre: M/M, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Yaoi, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5217536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfShipping/pseuds/Ace%20of%20Smut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirija smut. That is all there is to say -<br/>A vastly underappreciated ship in a vastly underappreciated fandom. Now I'm going to give it some love. Or, at least, some lust and emotional turmoil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The ways I know you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut written form Black Jack's point of view.

I know it’s him when there’s a blank letter in the mail. The envelope has no return address, and there is not even a signature. There never is. Sometimes, he seems to have begun writing a sentence, but he ends it with that one letter. Usually, it’s a B. Sometimes it’s a D. I know what he means. It’s how he warns me.

I send Pinoko to Tom’s inn on the next day, saying that I have a patient and she has to be away from the house. She pouts as I leave, but Tom’s parfait always silences her complaints.

I wait for him. Sometimes for days, and sometimes only hours. Once, he followed me home from the coffee shop… the first time.  
This time it’s the next day. I know it’s him the moment I hear the motorcycle purr, the dirt road being torn up by two wheels. I know that sound as I know the way he breathes. I relish, in secret, the sound of his hesitant steps as he walks up the steps to my porch. The thing about Kiriko is that he is never quite sure until…

Two knocks. I open the door to find one keen eye staring at me, well-hidden uncertainty marring his usual cynical expression. I step back, and he’s only just crossed the threshold before he closes the door and locks it. I can barely breathe in before he has me pinned against the wall, his lips claiming mine with the ferocity of a desperate man. There are two roads down which we can travel now, where his demanding lips can take me, and he decides. He always does. Either he grasps my wrists and take control, and our eventual intercourse is rough, needy, desperate. Those are his good days. Or…

It’s like today. His hands are hovering uncertainly above my shoulders. I sigh against his lips, not in displeasure, but because I know that this is one of his bad days. With gentle hands, I slowly turn him around and pin him against the wall right where I was before. The kiss deepens, and his hands pull me closer by the collar. He lets out little whimpers as I gently embrace him and hold him close. He needs this as much as the sex. I know that. And it is slowly breaking my heart. I can never tell him, though. He doesn’t need to hear that.

It’s become instinctive, in a way, so I barely register leading him to the bedroom. We’re both out of our clothes within minutes.  
Soon enough I have him gasping beneath me, as I lavish all of his secret nerve endings. Just beneath the scar from a bullet I once removed, his breath hitches. Teeth grazing the pulse of his neck, he gasps. My fingertips running along his spine, he moans.

I take my time with him, and he doesn’t complain. He’s ready when I take him, and he writhes and groans as I enter him, moving painstakingly slow. He wants to be held on these days, I know it even though he will not admit it. So I hold him. He clings to me desperately, his fingers clawing at my back with each thrust, and he wraps his legs around my waist, changing our angle. I thrust harder, striking right where I know his prostate is. He almost shouts my name when the tip of me rubs against it the first time, but all that escapes his lips is a stuttering on that letter, B. He whispers my name the second time. And the third, and the fourth. Eventually, I loose count and his whispers become irregular. His breathing soon follows that example. I know we’re nearing the end, but I don’t want to face the inevitable.

A few minutes later, I have to. He shivers first, then stiffens in my arms, letting out the most obscene moan followed by my name, my real name, shouted through clenched teeth. Briefly, I wonder how he knows it, but then I recall that I told him once. It does not matter.  
I come to my own climax a few thrusts later, and we lie together for a while. He’s still gripping me, holding me painfully close with every ounce of strength he has in that bony body.

I let him. He needs it.  
It’s sad, but I’m all the safety he’s got.

We fall asleep, and he is still in my arms.

I wake up a few hours later, finding that his breathing has turned irregular again, this time with fear. His face is contorted with the pain of his nightmare. It’s usually like this on his bad days. Something haunts him, and I’m not sure what it is. I always help him dispel it, even so.

A kiss on his brow, a whispered endearment.  
This night it is ‘I love you’.

His breathing eases, and I go back to sleep. I learned long ago that he never answers.

He tries to leave before I wake, but I always sleep lightly when he is here. I’m used to it now, too used to it for this to happen anymore. Instead I grasp him by the arm before he can leave, sits him down in my kitchen and makes him eat.

This breakfast is probably the first proper meal he’s had in days. He tortures himself in every way he can; I can see it in the way his bones show beneath his skin, I can see it in the matte gleam of his good eye. But I won’t allow it here. He doesn’t complain. Actually, he’s quiet for once. It’s probably got something to do with how run down he looks. It’s so much worse than I feared. I couldn’t see it in the dim lighting of the night, but here in the light of dawn it is painfully obvious. The way the shadows of his sharp cheekbones and hollow cheeks mar his face, the dark rings beneath his eyes, the strain is obvious. So obvious, in fact, that I dare ask something of him. It is the first word we have spoken, properly, since he came.

“Stay.”  
He lifts his head and looks at me with a quizzical and, unusually, surprised expression.

“Just for a day. Maybe two.”  
I say. I resist the urge to say ‘as long as you need’.  
He’d leave immediately if I began to get sentimental.

“Very well.”  
His answer takes me by surprise, I had expected some brusque rejection. When I look at him, the childish yearning for safety that shines well-hidden in his eyes has me, metaphorically, on the knees for this man. It underlines everything about him in that instant. His eye, his voice, the way he seems to lean slightly towards me.

I nod. He needs it. I think he knows that.


End file.
